Arkham Asylum
by Trumpeteer34
Summary: Arnold Wesker aka the Ventriloquist wakes up in Arkham Asylum with no memory of how he got there. What happened?


**Arkham Asylum**

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I do not own Arnold Wesker or Scarface. They belong to DC Comics (Batman, in particular). This was written purely for fun. There is some foul language later on, so be warned.

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Feeling slowly began to return to Arnold Wesker's body. His eyelids fluttered open and he stared up into nothing. He couldn't feel his glasses on his face, but it wouldn't have made any difference; his eyes were too unfocused to see anything at any range.

He blinked dully, the thick fog in his head slowly beginning to lift. He finally realized that he was on his back and on a cushioned surface. He still couldn't see anything he recognized. He attempted to bring a hand to his head, but discovered his wrists were tethered to something.

Drawing a panicked breath, he tried repeatedly to lift his arms with no success. By this point he could feel the straps across his body, holding him down. He looked back up. Despite his terrible vision, there was no mistaking where he was; the white padded walls gave it all away.

He was back in Arkham.

He had no idea how he had been put back in the asylum. The last thing he remembered was the beginning of that heist that Mr. Scar--

His eyes immediately shifted to his puppeteering hand. They widened when he found bandages in place of his dummy. "Oh no..." he began to repeatedly murmur. Something had gone wrong during the heist...terribly wrong.

The sound of an opening door made him jump. His eyes shot to the source of the noise to see a psychologist and a nurse walk in.

The psychologist offered a smile, but hardly anything could have calmed the man strapped to the bed at this point. "Hello, Mr. Wesker. How are you feeling today?"

"Where's Mr. Scarface?!" Wesker asked frantically. He could hardly see the man standing in front of him without his glasses.

The psychologist frowned. "Now, now, Mr. Wesker, calm down. Do you want to be sedated again?"

Arnold Wesker froze, staring at the psychologist with confused eyes. "...Again?"

The man nodded. "Yes, again. Are you going to stay calm for me--?"

"H-How long has it been?" Wesker questioned, his blue eyes still focused on the tremendously blurred figure before him.

"You have been here for three weeks, Mr. Wesker," the psychologist replied casually. "Don't you remember?"

He didn't hear the last statement made. '...Three weeks...? I've been in Arkham for three weeks with no memory what-so-ever?!' He snapped from his shock and looked away to the ground, then back up to the doctor. "...T-Three weeks?"

"Yes," the psychologist confirmed with a nod, "though you've been heavily sedated most of the time. So, are you going to stay calm for me? I'm sure you don't want another dose."

Wesker nervously looked to the nurse standing behind the asylum employee. Despite not being able to see what was on the tray she was carrying, he could only assume. After swallowing the lump in his throat, he returned his eyes to the other man in the room. "I-I-I'll stay calm," he managed to stutter.

The man smiled. With a swift movement of his hand, the nurse walked out. The door was shut and dead-bolted. "Tell me, Mr. Wesker, do you remember anything from the past three weeks?"

Wesker's eyes slowly lowered to his bandaged hand. He shook his head.

"What is the last thing you remember?"

If Mr. Scarface had been there, they wouldn't have been having this conversation. Despite all the verbal abuse he received from the dummy, he truly missed him. He could hardly function without him.

He blinked and looked back at the psychologist. He was beginning to get a headache. "Where is Mr. Scarface?" he asked again, this time much calmer and in a softer tone.

The psychologist studied the man strapped to the bed. It was obvious that he needed the dummy. Normally, they wouldn't be allowed to give him the dummy, but it seemed like he could only be calm with that ugly little puppet. "He'll be here shortly," he finally replied. "He's just being..."fixed" up, is all." He paused to clear his throat. "Now, what is the last thing you remember?"

Wesker breathed a sigh of relief. Scarface was alright. "How is he doing? He hasn't threatened anyone, has he?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Uh..." The man's mind was obviously long gone. A dummy talking to them without the Ventriloquist there? Ridiculous. "No, not at all. He's actually been pretty quiet."

"Really?" Wesker asked. He laid back and stared up at the ceiling. "Huh. I guess he knows when to stay quiet after all..."

After giving his patient another unnoticed odd look, he continued. "Please answer the question, Mr. Wesker."

"The beginning of the heist," Wesker said without hesitation. "That's what I last remember." He stared off into nothing again. He was still feeling the effects of the drugs given to him before he had finally come to. His head continued to hurt. "Can I please have my glasses? I'm getting such a headache."

"In a moment," the psychologist replied as he wrote down Wesker's answer. He looked up at the man. "Well, you seem like you've calmed down. I'm going to unstrap you, alright?"

Wesker only nodded, trying to ignore the pain in his skull. He could hardly feel the straps across his body being loosened. His lack of memory concerned him deeply. "...What happened...w-within those three weeks?"

"We'll discuss it when your friend arrives," the psychologist replied. He sat back when he had finished. "Here," he said as he held out the man's thick glasses. "So you don't remember the heist itself?"

Wesker sat up slowly. He shifted to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed in front of the psychologist. He took his glasses in his left hand and put them on. As he began to look around the room again, he shook his head. "No, but it's obvious that something went wrong."

"How can you be so sure?" the psychologist asked, continuing to study the man.

Wesker held up his bandaged puppeteering hand. "This only happens when things go wrong. Mr. Scarface was shot, wasn't he?"

The man across from the patient blinked. Perhaps the man wasn't as far gone as he had thought... "Yes, but he's...eh, recovering." He felt so strange talking about the dummy as if it were a real person.

"Mr. Scarface could always take a bullet," Wesker remarked. "You're not going to tell me what happened?"

The psychologist shook his head. "We'll discuss it when your friend arrives."

Just as he was saying that, the dead-bolt was unlocked. The door slightly opened. Down the hall, Wesker could hear an asylum guard murmur the word "dummy."

"WHO YA CALLIN' DUMMY?!" roared Scarface from outside the room.

As there was a surprised exclamation and the sound of wood hitting the tile floor, Arnold Wesker's eyes shot toward the door. "Mr. Scarface?"

"DO I LOOK STUPID TO YOU?!" the dummy continued as the guard growled a few curses.

The guard stepped into the opening of the room with the dummy in his arms, dressed in the Arkham uniform. "Take it," he demanded shortly, glaring at the psychologist.

The psychologist stood and took Scarface from the man's arms. He tried not to make a face; the dummy was so creepy looking, even without his gangster attire on. "Now, Mr. Wesker--"

"Put me down!" Scarface yelled, making the psychologist jump. He looked from the dummy to Wesker, then back to the dummy.

"Mr. Scarface, please calm down," Wesker said worriedly.

"Dummy? That you?"

The psychologist gave Scarface to Wesker.

"Yes, sir, it's me," Wesker answered softly. He placed his unbandaged hand in the dummy's back (being able to puppeteer with both hands). "How are you--?"

"We're in the nuthouse again?" Scarface interrupted angrily, finally shooting the Ventriloquist a glare. "Damn it!"

The psychologist raised a hand. "Now, now, Scarface, calm down. I need to ask you some questions about that heist three weeks ago."

"The job that went ta shit? There ain't nothin' to talk about, doc," Scarface growled, emphasizing the final word. He glared at the psychologist with cold, lifeless glass eyes.

"Oh, but there is," the psychologist pressed. "Would you care to explain to Mr. Wesker here what happened after you were shot?"

The dummy hesitated, the look on his face going from an extremely irritated to more of a confusion, all with the movement of his eyebrows. He glanced up at Wesker, then back to the psychologist.

"Please, Mr. Scarface, what happened?" Wesker asked.

"...I ain't exactly sure how to explain it," Scarface finally said.

"Is that because it only reinforces what we have been saying for so long?" the psychologist asked, folding his hands under his chin.

The dummy immediately got that irritated look on his face again. "Dummy 'ere ain't a multiple. End of story."

"Then how would you explain what happened?" the doctor shot back. When the dummy remained silent, he continued. "That's right, you can't. Allow me." He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes moving back and forth between Scarface and Wesker. "We know that your little heist had taken a turn for the worst and that you were shot. We also know that Mr. Wesker had not been acting like himself since he was brought here. In fact, he had been acting an awful lot like you, Scarface--"

"That don't mean nothin'," Scarface interrupted.

"Oh, but it does," the doctor affirmed. "Let's for a moment say that both you and Mr. Wesker are personalities. Normally, two different personalities cannot function at the same time. In your case, however, since you both have separate bodies, you can. Now take away one of those bodies. Now you've got one personality in a high-pressured situation without the protection of the other. What does he do? He retreats into his mind, thus releasing the other personality."

Wesker blinked. "Wait... A-Are you saying that Mr. Scarface...took over my body?"

"Yes," the psychologist confirmed with a nod. "That's when your illness took a more classic form, Mr. Wesker. Without your more dominant personality there to protect you, you hid and pushed the Scarface personality into consciousness. That is why you have no memory of what has happened over the past three weeks. We didn't bring Arnold Wesker into Arkham; we brought in Scarface."

"Then why don't I remember nothin' past enterin' the nuthouse?" Scarface growled in question.

The psychologist looked to the dummy. "Simple. We sedated you upon arrival because you were extremely agitated. After awakening from that drug-induced slumber, we found Mr. Wesker. He asked where Scarface was. Upon hearing that your body wasn't here, he became extremely agitated until the Scarface personality appeared again, at which point we sedated. That has been going on for the past three weeks.

"And it is for those reasons that you have Mr. Scarface," the psychologist concluded, looking at Arnold Wesker and motioning to Scarface. "We see that you truly need Scarface. So, we'll be providing therapy for the both of you."

"What?!" Scarface yelled. "We ain't crazy!"

"We hope to turn you both into upstanding citizens of Gotham," the psychologist said, rising to his feet. "That is all we have time for today, gentlemen." And with that, the psychologist left.

Wesker and Scarface stared at the door. The Ventriloquist was the first to move. "...You took over my body?"

Scarface turned and looked up at the Wesker. "Trust me, Dummy, I didn't enjoy a second of it."


End file.
